Southern Storm
by Traveler1861
Summary: Two years after the end of the War Between the States finds Adam Cartwright on business in Texas. An encounter with a gang of outlaws leads to a courageous adventure of daring and romance.
1. Chapter 1

Spring had washed over the land. March storms caused the country to green up and filled struggling creeks and rivers. With April, the wildflowers had begun to bloom. Mockingbirds trilled from their places in sprawling mesquites with their long, sharp thorns and wispy leaves. The days were already hinting at the agonizing heat that so many Texans boasted of with a streak of perverse pride. With the warm zephyrs whispering by, Adam allowed his mount to choose its own way through the narrow game trails. The man watched as a doe leapt across a streamlet and fled, before turning back and watching him from a fair distance. The Cartwright gave a small grin and tipped his hat at the animal. With such pleasant conditions as the day presented, one could not help but feel exuberant. Sport pranced gaily, breathing the sweet spring air. The tramp of multiple sets of hooves alerted Adam to the riders coming up.

Adam turned, a greeting on his lips, when the leader of the group wordlessly drew a rifle out of his saddle sheath. Adam's eyes widened slightly, and his right hand twitched toward the pistol at his hip when another of the men spoke.

"You touch that iron," the man said, voice smooth as silk as he reined his beautiful bay nearer to Sport, "and we'll make sure that by the time they find your corpse, there won't be enough of you to identify."

Adam eyed the lot. There were five of them, all mounted on fine horses. Each one had a rifle and sidearm, with a hand on one or the other. The eldest Cartwright brother cut his eyes back to the man who's gun was trained on his belly.

"Is there anything I can help you gents with?" Adam quipped, searching for an escape.

The Talking Man's lips twitched, eyes roaming over Sport. "That's a fine horse you've got there, stranger."

Adam glanced down at his gelding, then to the horses of the gang. "You've got fine mounts of your own."

The Talking Man eyed Adam's saddlebags. The Gunner jabbed Adam hard in the gut with his rifle barrel.

"Get up off the horse," unlike his boss, the Gunner's voice was as rough as his leathery face and twice as mean.

"Now look, mister," Adam started, before kicking at the Gunner with one leg and digging his spurs into Sport's flank with the other.

There was an explosion, and the sharp, strong tang of gunpowder lent itself to the once pure air. Adam felt the bullet scorching through his body as Sport spooked and bucked like a rangy mustang. He descent to the ground ended with a powerful jolt, his limp form crashing into the dirt and his bones jarring on the impact. Sport sped off, the three unspoken outlaws hot on his tail.

The Talking Man and the Gunner looked down at him with faces void of expression. "You should have just gone peacefully, stranger," the Talking Man tisked, and urged his horse leisurely away.

The Gunner gave him a harsh grin and kicked Adam powerfully in the ribs twice before mounting his horse and loping off to the rest of his outfit. The wounded man groaned, feeling the throb of a cracked rib or two and the burning pulsation of the angry bullet wound. In some deep crevice of his mind Adam knew he was lucky. His kick jostled the Gunner's rifle enough to make the shot stray too high- the bullet missed his vitals, though leaving the searing pain of a thousand fires smoldering in his shoulder. Blood thickly poured out of the wound and through his clothes, some dripping into the dirt below.

With great difficulty, Adam tried turning himself over. His movements were hastened by the rising bile in his throat. On spilling his guts, he twisted and collapsed again, breathing heavily from the exertion. Now his throat tingled with the aftermath of his expulsion. The coffee and bacon he had breakfasted on hours before didn't taste so good the second time around.

There were heavy steps, something nearing. Adam cut his eyes over, eyes struggling to adjust as a large shadow blocked most of the sun. With blood still coursing from his shoulder, Adam struggled to right himself, swiping at the creature. The dog backed away a few steps, tongue lolling. He was huge, a white lion in his majesty. His eyes were bluer than the sky above, and shined inquisitively. Adam was drained, unable to fend the creature off as it neared again, shiny black nose twitching as it roved the man's body. The long, fluffy tail wagged once before the dog turned and trotted into the mesquites.

Adam was left alone again. Moments later, the trees broke. Again, the sun was blotted, this time by a human figure.

"Oh, no..." The voice was soft as the breeze, and almost as elusive.

It was the last sound Adam heard before succumbing to the blackness fringing his vision.

* * *

The stranger was sleeping peacefully now, his breathing a bit ragged. Whoever he was, he had Auron to thank. Had the dog not found him, he would have continued to lie in the dirt until he bled out. Arcadia would have gone on thinking that a fortunate hunter had shot a deer, and would have been devastated to find the corpse of the man on her small plot of land.

He was a handsome enough fellow, the girl couldn't help but think, but she had never seen him anywhere around the county or even in the region. A newcomer, she mused. And someone had it out for him. Any number of things could have happened; with the war ended not two years before, feelings of discontentment were still strong. The James and Younger boys in the east were still fighting. Perhaps the man had enemies from he war, or perhaps even from before. _Of course_, she thought, absently stirring a pot of stew she had started earlier,_ he could be just a misfortunate traveller_. When many of the state's men were fighting, the land had become thick with Comanches, Mexicans, and plain bad people, just reveling in the absence of men of authority. The Rangers, called back into action, had a rough go of getting the vast territories back into control.

Auron had padded into the offset cookhouse, and was begging at her bare feet for a morsel of stew meat or some other delicacy. Loving as his master was, the girl was able to resist his pleading gaze. She patted his broad had absently, and set another pot of water on the stove to boil, her thoughts brought back to the patient sleeping in her home not a hundred feet away. Stew would be too heavy a meal for him now, if he should wake up. A broth would be easier on his stomach. When Auron stilled considerably and perked his ears, eyes trained toward the house, Arcadia followed his gaze. She padded quietly out of the cookhouse, across the boarded footpath, and into the house. It was small, a grand total of three rooms, and was once home to seven people. Now, Arcadia occupied the small space alone, accompanied only by the great dog. Passing through the small portion of dining area, she entered the parlor. Unable to drag the unconscious man any further, Arcadia had made a padded pallet on the dirt floor and gingerly laid her patient out on it.

"Ssh," she soothed, pressing a cool rag to the stranger's forehead.

His eyes flicked under closed lids as another moan was ground out between partially closed lips.

"You're alright, mister. You'll be just fine."

She was telling partial truths to the man. The truth was that she wasn't completely sure of his future. It had taken somewhere between half an hour to an hour and a half to dig the lead out of his shoulder, and cost him a lot of blood. The cracked ribs had been bound- to the man's eventual embarrassment or disapproval -by a dismantled corset that didn't too much press on his stomach.

Now was the crucial time, when his fate would be decided. The man could develop a fever, or poisoning of the blood; or, on the lighter end of the spectrum, could heal in a week or so. As Arcadia pressed a gentle hand to the bandaged shoulder, his hazel eyes cracked open. The clear, intelligent depths were filled with pain, a look of hopelessness that had haunted the woman for seven years. His face was open and pleading, his cracked lips parted to draw shaking breaths. It was hard not to imagine the man in a blue or grey uniform.

"Are you with the land of the living yet, pard?"

His eyes ghosted shut for a moment, and the girl knew what he was doing. She could feel him gathering his strength, and when he went to push himself up, she gently nudged him back into the bed of quilts.

"You boys are all the same- you wake up, you wanna get up; you get up, you wanna get gone. Back to the war and the battle, and you never take the time to realize you've got another battle on your hands already. Mister, if you've any hopes of living, you'll lay right back down, and if you're up to it I'll fetch you some broth."

"Y-you... Who are you?"

Arcadia just shook her head at his question, his voice deep, and thick with pain. Adam watched as the woman quietly tread through an open doorway to the cookhouse. For the brief second he first had his eyes open, Adam thought he was looking at the face of an angel. The flickering candlelight on her pale face lent a mystic atmosphere to the realm. But after his first intake of breath, he realized that either he was indeed still among the living, or was being tormented in hell.

When his apparent savior returned, she carried a steaming mug in one hand, and rested her other on the head of her dog. She helped Adam sit up and lean against the near wall, and smiled softly at his dazed expression.

"Enjoy your good health for now," the maiden hummed, pressing a small hand to his broad forehead. "You've got a hint of fever already. Tomorrow won't go too well for you."

The broth had cooled enough to be safe to drink, so she passed it to him. Adam accepted the steaming mug gratefully, drawing comfort from the warmth that spread through his hands. The man risked a small sip, and repeated his question from before.

"Who are you?"

A sad smile graced her lips, and she looked down at her clasped hands. "My name's Arcadia- Arcadia Lee. You?"

"Arcadia," the name was soft and easy as it rolled off his tongue. "I'm Adam Cartwright. I came from the Nevada Territory on business for my father. I was..." He seemed to remember something. "My horse!"

Adam scrambled, almost spilling the broth and aggravating his wounds severely in his vain attempts to stand. With a firmer hand, Arcadia restricted him and retrieved the mug.

"You'd better calm down before you hurt yourself. Your horse is gone by now, but if you're lucky you'll be able to find him again- once you're healed, that is."

"Lady, you don't understand!" Adam cried, half in pain and half in exasperation. "My saddlebags had important documents in it for some of the cattlemen in Fort Worth! I have to get them back!"

Arcadia frowned slightly and closed her eyes. Her head shook minutely. "If you go out now," the lady ground out, "you'll die in the 25 miles to Fort Worth. If you got a good look at the fellas that held you up, I can get word out for the folks 'round there to be looking out for 'em. "

Adam sighed heavily, angry at having been cut down only a day's ride to his destination. Arcadia didn't dwell on the matter any longer, but passed the mug of broth back to him. As Adam took a deep drink of the stuff, he stared over the edge of his mug. _Arcadia_, he thought. It was a fitting name. The girl's dark hair shone raven in the low light, her green eyes large and expressive. She was the picture of Greek beauty, and simple in her elegance. She was short as she stood, and quiet as she stepped into another room and returned with a large blanket.

"You should get some sleep when you're finished with your supper. Don't worry about the mug when you're done- just set it to the side. I'll see you in the morning, and if you're well enough we'll make the trip into Weatherford to report your horse stolen."

With that soft farewell she went to make her own supper, which she ate in the cool shade of the evening. Adam had long since drifted into an uneasy sleep by the time she and Auron returned to the house. She blew out he few candles and retired to her own quarters, her large companion sprawled in the doorway.

* * *

**_A/N: That's all for today, folks. Let me know what you think, good, bad, or ugly, in the review box down there. Note, I try to keep my writings as accurate historically as I can. The city of Weatherford, Texas was started 1859, and is the county seat of Parker County for those who don't know. This story starts in the spring of 1867. If anywhere I stray way too far from the truth, drop me a line please so that I can correct myself. Thanks, and see you next time._**


	2. Chapter 2

Adam writhed, his body quaking with chills. Through the fog that rolled into the depths of his mind rode his father, his brothers. They whooped and cried, urging their mounts along a treacherous trace; up a winding, narrow path that led to oblivion. Adam could see through the fog. He called out a warning, but the statement was caught and strangled in his constricting throat. As his family's horses crested the rise, the disappeared altogether. In a panic, Adam ran to the cliff top.

A small figure stood stark against the darkness. As Adam neared the girl, she turned, a slow and sad smile on her lips. From the rims of her green irises bled out the deep red of blood, and more of the substance welled out of her tear ducts. The primitive apparition of Fear had Adam by the throat as the girl laughed merrily, blood sliding slowly down the pale surface of her face. She turned, peered over the cliff edge, and the smile dropped. Blood still dripped off of her jaw as she surveyed the passing men. His family galloped the open space below, the Talking Man and his gang coursing through them. None of the horses touched the earth as they were wheeled about in intricate maneuvers, the groups of men trying to overpower one another.

Adam twisted, to turn and beg the girl to end the game. She was gone. The man turned a slow circle, cold fear slowly succumbing to hot flashes of pain that overwhelmed him, brought him to his knees. He saw in the swirling sky a shade of himself. The shade grew larger, a giant in his might. The shade was shot down. The Gunner over the cliff held his rifle with a smoking barrel. The blood stained girl appeared again in front of Adam, and he realized that it wasn't the shade the Gunner had shot at, but himself. Blood poured from his chest with the frantic pounding of his heart, it welled in his throat and poured out of his mouth. He was suffocating, drowning in his own blood. Tears slid down his cheeks. His cry for help was but a strangled gurgle in his throat.

Arcadia observed the wounded man quietly, a tin cup of coffee warming her hands. The sun had not yet risen over the horizon, and the land was still dark. Somewhere outside a lone coyote yipped, hoping to get a response from his comrades. No such response came, and the house fell silent again but for the sharp, erratic breathing of the wounded man as he squirmed in his nightmares. The fellow's face contorted in fear, and his arms and legs thrashed wildly. Arcadia just watched, musing over the suffering man, until he slammed his right shoulder against the back wall of her cabin. He cried out at the contact, but didn't wake.

Arcadia set her coffee up down a safe distance away and kneeled beside the Cartwright. Her hand must have felt like ice against the burning surface of his forehead. Humming a soft tune under her breath, she pressed both hands firmly at the ridges of his shoulders, far enough away from his bullet wound so as not to put pressure on it. As she held him to the floor, he started to panic at the pressure, spasmodically thrashing against her grip. But Arcadia had dealt with wounded men.

"One, two, and three. One, two, and three," she chanted softly. "This is the toll war took of me. One, two, and three."

She chanted the dirge repeatedly, always in the same soft monotone. Adam finally calmed, slumping weakly onto the blankets. Arcadia sat back and retrieved her coffee, unphased. She continued humming, rocking on her heels lost in thought. The last man she had comforted succumbed to dysentery. The one before that bled to death while a 'surgeon' covered in blood sawed his leg off at the hip. She could recall his shrill screams as the saw blade sunk deeper into his flesh with every squelching stroke. When the object had finally hit bone, the squeals died out. The man fell unconscious, and never woke.

Arcadia gave a shudder and sipped at her now cold coffee, letting the bitter taste ease her back into reality. This Cartwright fellow wasn't in too deep- he had a good chance at living. He wasn't like those young soldier boys. He had time to heal, and a good place to stay while his bones mended. There was no war pressing him onward, and no other patients distracted her from him. Without being in a crowded and filthy hospital, his chance at a future was significantly increased.

Auron, who had previously been snoring against the curtain separating his master's room from the rest of the house, stood and stretched. He yawned widely and wagged his tail at Arcadia, who laughed lightly at him. "Time to start the day now?" She asked quietly, standing and patting his wide head.

The dog followed her out into the early morning air. The earth was only just beginning to lighten, and time was still suspended between night and day. Along a well-worn footpath, Arcadia walked to the small barn her father had built so many years ago. It was still quiet, with only the deep rhythmic breathing of its occupants to disturb the quiet. In an empty stall at the back of the barn she kept the feed, not only for the horses, but for her handful of chickens as well.

The chickens were just beginning to rouse themselves, and clucked expectantly. They were fed, and the hens eggs stolen. The small bantam cock strutted around his hens, pecking fastidiously. He was surprisingly mute, as if respecting the early morning's right to quiet. Arcadia knew that he would find his voice soon, and relished in the lull before the day. By the time the chickens were fed, the larger animals in the barn had woken as well, and were impatiently snorting for their breakfast. Two horses, a mule, and an ancient milk cow occupied the building.

The horses, Bowie and Travis, were usually the first to draw their master's attention. Bowie was a beautiful, deep liver chestnut, a striking white blaze dividing his face. His chest was broad and deep, had strong haunches, and was immensely powerful. The creature's eyes were deep and intelligent, but shone with the sort of confident pride that earned him his name. Travis, in the stall next to him, was a rich mahogany bay. He was smaller than Bowie, but every bit as strong- what he lacked in size, he made up with a fierce, determined attitude. The pair would prance gaily around the pasture, each trying to outdo the other.

They were judged by Pretty Mama. The old mule was grey and grizzly about the face, her once lovely bay coloring diminished by time and a life of work. She was housed across the barn from Bowie, and always stared between he and Travis with heavy hooded eyes, her long eyelashes flicking when flies strayed too close. The creature was too old to enjoy the frolicking that her larger, younger barnmates insisted upon. She preferred to graze idly under the shade of an ancient pecan tree that stood tall and proud in the back corner of the pasture.

Always by Pretty Mama's side was Sugar Pie, an equally old cow that scarcely gave a quart of milk anymore. She really had no purpose on the hall stead but for to keep Pretty Mama company, and this she did with as much gusto as could be worked up by an animal in its last seasons of life. Sugar Pie mooed softly as her rheumy eyes caught the glimpse of her dark headed owner. When she was milked, and everyone fed, Arcadia returned to the house.

By this time, the girl's stomach was growling ravenously. As she gently pushed open her worn front door, she caught sight of Adam. The man was halfway to his feet and panting with exertion. When the door swung open, he lost what little balance he possessed, and the poor man was reduced to a gasping pile on the floor. Arcadia crossed her arms over her chest and stepped further into the house, one eyebrow raised and a scowl marring her pretty features. She raised her chin slightly and drew a breath. Adam knew that look. Any person with any sort of authority adopted the same likeness when dealing with an apparent subordinate- especially when their intent was to lecture. The man had given many such looks before, even received them from his father. Now, as he looked upon the glowering girl, he knew just what he was in for.

"Mister Cartwright, I do believe that I've already warned you about exerting yourself. You're not well enough to stand. You won't be well enough to stand for a little while, and as much as that may chafe you, you'll just have to deal with it!" When Adam tried to get a word in edgewise, Arcadia raised both brows. Adam slowly shut his mouth. "Now, if you'll just set right there, I'll have you some coffee heated in a moment and I'll be startin' on some breakfast."

As frustrated as Adam was at having the little woman order him around, he was secretly grateful that he wasn't required to get up. He ached all over, and the throbbing in his shoulder was intense and continuous. He still struggled for a decent breath, his sides being sharply stabbed by his jostled ribs. He cast his gaze down to his torso, for the first time noting the absence of his shirt and the presence of... Something else. The corset had been cut apart and restitched in a way so as to bind broken bones such as his own. Even as reconfigured as the garment was, it's identity was still quite obvious. Arcadia turned to ask the man how he liked his eggs, and her lips quirked slightly. Many other men had borne a similar expression, and it never ceased to serve as a source of amusement in the grim hospital settings.

"You're ribs'll take some five or six weeks to heal proper. You need to take a few real deep breaths every hour."

"I-" the confounded, tight response died in his throat. The trace of a smile turned into a smirk as Arcadia turned away, reaching into a worn cabinet in her small dining room to fetch two tin plates, and a cup for her guest. Then, thinking back, decided against giving him anything as heavy as eggs and bacon. They would sit too heavily in his stomach, and make him more ill than he would already be.

"You won't enjoy what I'm about to tell you," the dainty little creature remarked, meeting the man's gaze briefly as she passed him a warm cup of coffee.

"What? I have to wear the 'corset-of-shame' until you let me go?" Adam quipped.

"Oh, you won't appreciate that? Now I thought that lady's underpinnings were men's favorite things. I meant that you won't like not having bacon and eggs and biscuits."

Surprisingly, Adam didn't make a fuss. At the mention of a heavy breakfast, his stomach did somersaults and he felt bile trying to force its way up his throat. Swallowing heavily, he politely accepted a warmed mug of leftover chicken broth when it was offered. When Arcadia returned sometime later with her own breakfast, she quietly sat on the edge of Adam's pile of quilts. Auron sat near her, nose twitching, and begged with his clear blue puppy eyes. When the girl ignored him, he raised a paw and slapped it down on her skirts. Adam chuckled, and immediately regretted the action as his ribs were jostled.

Casting a twinkling eye to Adam, Arcadia tore off a small piece of bacon and held it in the air above Auron's head. The dog immediately lifted himself onto his hind legs and tucked his front paws close to his chest. The girl tossed the offering, ruffling her dog's ears when he caught the bacon and returned to earth.

"We're going into Weatherford today, Mr Cartwright," Arcadia informed him after disposing of the morning's dishes.

Adam didn't know whether to feel happy or sickened at the statement.

"You'll get to feelin' better later in the day- mornings and evenings'll be the worst for you," the lady assured. "We won't be leavin' till noon."

The predetermined departure time was not for three hours. It was quickly agreed upon that Adam needed some fresh air, and the man struggled to his feet. His legs trembled as, leaning heavily on Arcadia, he walked outside. On the short front porch connecting to the house there sat an old weather-beaten and slightly abused old rocking chair. Adam laboriously lowered himself into the wooden seat, struggling for a full breath. Arcadia frowned and touched a soft hand to his forehead, tisking and shaking her head at his fever. She smoothed her skirts nervously, and for the first time Adam noticed that they were smeared with dried blood. He looked up to her face, and noticed the lines of worry etched into her features.

"I'll need into change those bandages," Arcadia declared. "I'd almost forgotten."

Without another word she returned to her house and emerged with an arm full of medical supplies.

"What made you help me?" Adam asked as she unwound the thick bandages covering his shoulder.

Arcadia shrugged, tossing the soiled bandages aside and examining the angry wound closely. She had made a mistake in not cauterizing the wound, and another in leaving it open. Reaching for a bottle of whiskey, she pulled the cork out with her teeth and pushed Adam back, the chair tilting as far back as could be allowed. Adam gritted his teeth, steeling himself for the burn that was sure to accompany the firewater.

"I've experience with men like you," Arcadia said simply, ignoring the loud hiss that snaked its way through Adam's clenched teeth as she tipped the whiskey bottle over the festering wound.

"Experience, huh?" Adam ground out, the wildfire burning enticing his injured shoulder to throb rhythmically with the beating of his heart.

Arcadia patted his shoulder with a clean cloth, not offering any form of explanation. Adam watched her work quietly for a moment, twitching slightly at the pull of his skin when she began to stitch the bullethole. A look of concentration clouded her face and her brows furrowed with every new stitch. Everything about her seemed slow and methodical, nothing overly rushed. He had heard of the easy-going nature of many Southerners, but this was his first experience of the subject first-hand.

"You sure don't have much to say," Adam prompted.

He felt her huff slightly as she shook her head. "Nothin' worth sayin'."

"A quiet girl," Adam mused, then curiously fixed his eyes on her face. "You keep saying you've experience with men like me. What makes you so much of an expert on wounded men?"

Arcadia met his hazel eyes, her own green ones full of a somber, unreadable emotion. "The War. Lots of men were wounded in the War. You're no different than any of them, except that you have a better chance at living."

"Is that what you're hoping for me?"

Arcadia's eyes hardened. "That's what I've hoped for all my patients. I've buried plenty of men before, Mr. Cartwright. It never gets any easier, and it's not a habit I want to continue."

She was finished stitching, and re-wrapped the wound in clean bandages before returning her medical supplies to their place and stalking out the front door to the barn.

"Since you seem to be doing alright now, I'll get the horses ready to go. It's better that we leave now rather than later after all," she called over her shoulder.

* * *

**_A/N: I apologize, this chapter is way overdue. It is, however, a few hundred words longer than the last- I hope you guys enjoy the length. If Adam is becoming OOC, I need you guys to definitely warn me so I can correct myself. _**

**_A huge thanks to all reviewers and readers alike, I hope you continue to enjoy the story. Anonymous readers now, you can review now as well. Till next time, have a nice day!_**


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